Cockjito

These nights don't evaporate or turn into toner smoke, they pile on themselves, like slides of slides of Hitler's brain or ant homes. They compress and depress spines and minds, respectively. The locked side door may keep them out, but they knock on the window of an empty room while they wonder how they managed to make it outside and light a cigarette. They pray the body in the bed will be gone by the time they manage to get back to the room, once they remember that there might be a body in that bed. I smelled the smell of people that drink too much beer and fart so much the room smells like humid shit and a waste of time, skin and effort. These are just people. People with no sense. Most people. They shit on floors because they drank too many Coors Lights and at the moment they wanted to prove that they were in control, "my choice is to shit on this floor! It's my right." I drink my whiskey and wait for the end. Everyday I wake up fresh, but flesh, other flesh, ends me and only substances or a pole up the ass keeps me standing, steady and pouring. And for what reason? Dump some piss down your throat, listen to your asshole problems at the airport and smile. And you think you got me by barely leaving a tip. I barely poured you a drink. I barely listened to you. So fuck all. If you want a "real cocktail" go down the street to where everyone wears a vest and beard and also wants you dead. If you are looking for flavor profile, look no further than my cockjito.

Bad Knees/Hookers/Passed-Out Pants Shitter

There's just something about this place. This place is where the drunks and fucks think that they can go to escape from their lives. But they brings their lives with them. They bring their minds, their pills, their addictions, their troubles, their sins...
Outside I watch the old man collapse in front of the planter. To my right, two hookers are on their phones and computers trying to find a score. Everyone is getting fucked up. Down the street was another false alarm that invited 10 fire engines and three ambulances.
I helped pick up the guy that collapsed. He said he had bad knees and then sat down with the hookers. Another guest somehow stumbled down the stairwell to the men's employee stairwell where she attempted to shit in the urinal but then passed out on the bench where all the janitors asses sit when they change their shoes.
The days never seem to get better, just drunker. I get drunker, they get drunker and everyone pretends to give a shit about tomorrow. They get drunker, I get drunker. Every talks about making something of themselves. Or improving their lives or just telling me that their "other" has the addiction and how hard it is for you to deal with it, but you love them so much that you shit your pants and pass out with your beaver peaking out and your flab....ugh.
I've seen the...fuck it. I don't even want to deal with it anymore tonight.

Convention/Shaker soaking

I soak the shakers, dump the rinds and peels, the uneaten olives. Drag another bag of empty bottles and empty time to the dumpster. I watch them stumble out. I've listened to everything they had to say, twice. The new jackasses act like the old jackasses. Running for the elevator, throwing up on the curb, bringing back a hooker and getting robbed. The conventions are back in town.
I soak the shakers, dump the rinds and peels, the uneaten olives. Drag another bag of empty bottles and empty time into the dumpster. I watch them stumble out. I've listened to everything they had to say, twice. I walk to the convenience store and buy a half pint because if I buy anything more, I'll drink it. More. Drink. The girlfriend wants snacks so I buy the full spectrum but she is asleep when I get home. The cats are willing to eat anything, but they are on a diet. I drink the half pint and the beer that is in the 'fridge. 30 pack, so I'm good for a bit. I/you have to  separate ourselves from you and me. And this writing is like a spiral downward of shit.

Time Traveling Cocksucker

There's no question that if you decide to travel through time, you will murder someone and then through some poor decision making, a baby will be born with a cock growing out of it's ear and this mutation will eventually become problematic for you when you are a rich asshole with an ear-dick who develops a fetish for having obese women fuck the side of your head while pulling chains of sausage frogs out of your ass. There will be a war and only one song will exist, and it will be an Oingo Boingo song. So please, remain in your dimension.

Suck Alley

It's hard to escape the desire to just punch a fucking guy at 3 am, whether you're sober or not...for me, anyway. I walk out of work, hours of pouring and talking and cutting people off even before they get to the bar. People are puking in the business center, the homeless sneak in and shit in the sinks. The lonely sit with a cup of water in the lobby with their legs crossed and act like their interested in some conversation that they aren't involved with...they nod their head and never blink and when they get up, we call housekeeping because they pissed the couch cushions, again. While business is slow, I stare out the window and watch a homeless guy suck off another seemingly homeless guy who is also shitting into a box of donuts. When the business is done, the box of shit and donuts exchanges hands. And no one realizes that there are lights and that I've just watched the whole process. But what is worse, is that this guy walks into the bar. I just watched him shit into a box of donuts while getting sucked off by a homeless guy and he asks for a glass of Riesling with a vodka chaser. Pouring and handing this guy drinks is like, I guess, waiting on Brad Pitt, but the Brad Pitt of dick-sucking, donut box shitting. I say, "Are you local, you seem familiar," he does a little dance and then stops. "I'm from Wisconsin" he says flatly and lays a fifty on the bar. "My wife will be coming down here in a minute, just pour her a drink on my tab." By some odd reflex I look to my left, down the alley. He notices and puts another fifty on the bar.

Oh, fuck you anyway.

I understand that you amuse yourself but you don't amuse me. Therefore, I am fisting you with a bag of thumbtacks. She has a cute face that turns quickly to horror and there is a guy on the toilet that has fallen asleep amid drunken turding. This guy keeps walking into the bar, same bar, same order, same rejection, five hours straight, waiting for him to have a stroke or get hauled away. She keeps adjusting her tampon, or pad, I never get it right, but with a bloody hand she digs into the napkin caddy and shoves a wad in between her legs. I'm pouring a vanilla watermelon martini and try to smile to the guest who ordered it but now she's looking a little "off". I'm reading the paper and suddenly I get the urge to eat it, choke and die. I don't but I tear a little corner off and suck on the pulp. Ugh, I'd throw up before I died choking on these lies. But it's like a tab of acid. The guys can't seem to wear hats without cocking them to an absurd angle that makes me turn my head but my haymaker still lands straight. No straight hat, no service, face-punch. The glassy eyes and the bitches that still love them...the fist pumpers, the ordered from the menu haircuts, the exploitation of being handed a "no challenge" card. I probably don't look much better. I've got a 36 ounce stein of Miller Lite and a basket of chicken wings in front of me and I want to kill but someone might have a target on my back and so we're all misunderstood and the bullet travels.